


Outside Looking In

by limeta



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: AINSLEY WHITLY IS MY GIRL AND I LOVE HER SO DAMN MUCH, Character Analysis, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Girl Power, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Murder, My girl, Season Finale, Serial Killers, prodigal daughter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23890441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limeta/pseuds/limeta
Summary: Ainsley Whitly is underestimated.
Relationships: Ainsley Whitly & Jessica Whitly, Ainsley Whitly & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Ainsley Whitly
Comments: 20
Kudos: 99





	Outside Looking In

Ainsley Whitly is underestimated. This is what happens when she doesn’t have episodes, when she doesn’t chase ghosts that cause her pain, when she doesn’t have the absurd fascination of her father aimed towards her. Like this, it is both easy to slip under the radar for a lot of things and uncomfortable to know that she will forever be _outside looking in_ when it comes to her own family.

She is well aware that Malcolm is traumatized, that Malcolm is ill, that Malcolm needs all of the help he can get. Whenever she tries to switch a topic with her mother they only manage to get a few sentences back and forth before circling back to Malcolm and whatever problem he may be having at the time. Her poor boy. Ainsley’s poor older brother.

When one puts all of it together, it truly doesn’t make it fair for Ainsley to hold a grudge. So, to the best of her ability, she doesn’t. Instead she pursues her own career and looks forward to where it will take her. For a long time it is only her work she buries herself in. It is kind of like Malcolm, but unlike Malcolm she actually wants to talk about it with her mother and _she_ sometimes wants to listen instead of nod her pretty little head and simper.

Her mother takes a pill with her meal and says that it’s for migraines. Ainsley knows they aren’t for migraines just how those restraints on her brother’s bed aren’t for kink, how some people assume.

Ainsley truly doesn’t remember when she becomes the ’well-adjusted Whitly’ but finds that there is something severely wrong with that picture. It doesn’t make sense to her. Though, because Ainsley has never seen a well-adjusted adult in her life, she tries to be one on her own.

Jin comes later into her life and he leaves fairly quickly. This is difficult to admit, but Jin isn’t important. He is a damn good cameraman and Ainsley is sad to see him go, but there are other professional cameramen out there, too. It doesn’t do her well to dwell on people who come and go through her life. Malcolm ruminates. Jessica pretends she doesn’t. Ainsley won’t. This is why she is on the outside looking in. They’re sheltering her. They’re trying to protect her by keeping her out of the loop.

An investigative journalist isn’t someone they can just dismiss. And it feels like a dismissal every time Ainsley tries to get through to her mother only to have the topic diverted to Malcolm. Or even when she tries to talk to Malcolm and he dares to turn the tables on her by asking her things. He’s the only one that pays attention to her, if only so he doesn’t have to have a meaningful conversation with her. Ainsley Whitly will take what she can get. It’s fine.

Martin Whitly. Dr. Whitly. Father. Dad?

Now _he_ is obsessed with Malcolm. ’’My boy!’’

Though, he does notice her far better than her mother does. Ainsley thinks that this has more to do with his ingrained ability to scope his surroundings than it does about fatherly affection. That’s fine, too. It shouldn’t be. Ainsley begins to think she deserves better. Her family is not treating her well.

They’re all struggling, though. It doesn’t mean anything to her if she holds a grudge, but it means a world of difference to them. Ainsley goes through the motions with Dr. Whitly.

She antagonizes him, curious to see if under that facade he puts up before the camera is a man who is just as angry as she is. There is a simmering rage silently coursing through her blood. His gaze is hungry whenever he sees them enter his cell. 

For those brief moments she’s spent with her father, she feels _seen_. They’re both outside looking in now. Malcolm has his own life. Jessica is not in his reach. They’re both grasping for straws to see what’s happening with them.

Ainsley doesn’t know where she has the strength to hold this camera so steadily. It’s heavier than expected, but she’s stronger than she’s aware. Than anyone is aware.

In retrospect, this is an unfortunate breach in trust and she understands why Jin leaves. She is a driven, heartless, ambitious person. Well, not heartless – her serial killer/surgeon father may have a couple of dad jokes about that comment.

John Watkins hunts her in her own home. While her mother is crying above her and trying to tell her to keep going, Ainsley wonders a bit why she allows herself to be a victim. A victim of her family, victim of her family’s baggage, a victim to her own so-called well-adjusted life. She isn’t well adjusted. None of this is well adjusted.

She’s spent her entire life wondering about her father and being told that she is disallowed to ask questions about him. That if she dares to do this, he will somehow corrupt her. Not knowing that a person cannot be corrupted when they have all of the chips laid out before them. Ignorance is what corrupts. Ainsley has been ignorant for far too long. The blow to the side of her head bleeds and her eyes flicker. Her mother is screaming.

Ainsley Whitly can’t believe she’s allowed herself to think that something hers can only be hers. That her imaginary friend isn’t only hers, isn’t a product of her imagination. No.

Malcolm has come. He’s screaming John Watkins’s name.

Ainsley has to share Mr. Boots with him, as well.

At the very least she hopes he gives the bastard hell for this. Nobody hurts her family and gets away with it. Ainsley drifts to sleep. The pain in her head is too great to concentrate.

There is a scar from the blow that she will have to live with. It reminds her of how helpless being feels. Ainsley swears never to be helpless like that again. It is not in her blood to wait like a damsel in distress, yet she finds herself being one over and over again.

However, Ainsley gets treated seriously now. She’s one of them now. She’s one of the victims of John Watkins. She’s one of her family, if only in this regard.

Her mother hugs her and cries into her pretty, pretty hair that’s mussed with blood now. Ainsley looks at Malcolm. He hasn’t killed him.

Ainsley knows he isn’t a killer. The only killer in their family is the one locked away.

It is bad enough that one killer calls on her show and makes a fool of her, but her fucking serial killer father has the nerve to call her on her show, like she is some reality show. As if her life isn’t important. As if her professional integrity isn’t important. Ainsley doesn’t frown because the cameras are unflattering for women then. She keeps her face calm instead as she very politely uses her ’fuck off’ tone of voice.

Nobody in her family takes her profession seriously, do they?

It isn’t fine.

It fucking isn’t fine.

Ainsley challenges Malcolm to see who can dig up more on Eve Blanchard. This she can do. This she does happily. Proving her NYPD, ex-FBI brother wrong fills her with a sudden drive that she isn’t quite sure where it’s been hiding.

In a way, Ainsley is almost sad when she’s the better investigative journalist. That feeling fades quickly. Brother and sister exchange information, or trade it like they used to trade trading cards. He isn’t happy. Her big brother. Her eternally sad brother.

When they visit dad in prison (always a sentence that starts hilariously and ends in tragedy), he is afraid. He tells them to drop whatever they are investigating. His gaze is the same as hers when she’s been hunted by John Watkins, Ainsley can’t help but notice. He tugs on the rope tying him like an animal. Does she have a rope? Ainsley wonders. It feels like she has a rope around her throat that gets pulled every time she wants to say something, but it’s Malcolm time. But it’s none of your business Ainsley, darling.

Her mother tells her to be grateful she does not remember her father. She remembers Mr. Boots, instead. A very unfair trade-off, in her opinion. At least her dad isn’t one bible verse away from starting a cult of killing.

Ainsley feels like what little religiousness she practices has fled from her after Watkins. While Malcolm and her mother are talking, that serial killer father of hers notices her. Again, Ainsley is convinced that he has an acute perception of his surroundings so nobody gets a drop on him. Isn’t he a predatory psychopath or something?

Nicholas Endicott is a dangerous, dangerous man.

’’Mom,’’ Ainsley is a very bad person for saying this, but she is always cutthroat with words, ’’you have a type, I see.’’

’’Oh for god’s sake, Ainsley.’’ Jessica Whitly sighs in exasperation and begins drinking.

Ainsley smiles. She can’t help it. Her life is a horror telenovela. That could be a good title for her autobiography. Or perhaps not. Is she vain enough to write an autobiography?

In another world, perhaps Ainsley is too weak, is too afraid of saying ’no’ to Nicholas Endicott. Perhaps in another world when he offers her the White House she says yes. In this world she just tells him she’ll think about it. It’s the closest she will get to saying ’no’. He radiates a different energy to Watkins. However much John Watkins is dangerous, however much her father is dangerous; they pale in comparison to the man sitting across from her and offering her wine. He smiles and the world bows before him in fear. People who don’t have to lift a finger to get things done are the ones worth fearing.

Ainsley is a hard worker. She doesn’t like to use her mother’s money or influence. The Miltons are dead. She is not a Milton or a Bright like her brother is. No, Ainsley is a Whitly. And the Whitly’s work for their own supper. Be it a living body to dissect for fun or to climb a ladder towards success in her field. They will grab opportunity with their own hands and do what is necessary.

Malcolm does that, just as well, Ainsley believes. But he has friends. Ainsley doesn’t quite have many friends. Sure, she is _friendly_ , but does she have the same emotional connections with people like he does?

And they have the gall to call her the well-adjusted Whitly.

Their father is in prison. A different one. This one he fears. This one he fears _truly_. He is losing himself in his fear. Ainsley knows how that feels like. Malcolm doesn’t understand what it’s like to be afraid for his life. His life matters very little to him. How selfless and suicidal. Ainsley won’t comment. Sometimes not commenting is its own comment. They teach everyone that when they learn journalism. Silence is telling, sometimes far more than any quote can be. Silence is also useless, because it can’t be a viable source of information. It can’t be cited.

’’You can still stop all of this, save our family.’’ Her father looks at Malcolm and begs him with his eyes to do what is needed.

’’How?’’ Malcolm asks. As if he doesn’t already know.

’’By killing him.’’ The way her father looks when he tells Malcolm this is painful. He truly believes Malcolm can do it.

Ainsley decides to break it to him, once and for all that: ’’He’s not a killer.’’

’’He’s a **_Whitly_**.’’ Her father rebukes. He glances over to her, reassuring her that Malcolm will know what to do. Ainsley wants to look at him properly, but his gaze already switches over to Malcolm. Of course it does.

They call him away. When their father stands up he does so on shaky feet. ’’I,’’ he starts, ’’I love you both. And, ah, being your father has been the best part of my life. You,’’ he stutters over the next part, ’’you have been the best part of my life.’’

Ainsley can’t listen to this anymore. She flings herself out of her seat. Enough is enough. This isn’t her father. This isn’t the Surgeon. How can he be like this whilst at the same time asking her brother to kill?

’’Stop.’’ She commands. He obviously doesn’t expect this from her. Surprise flashes across his face. ’’I do not want to hear any last words.’’ There has been enough bloody pathétique in her life from her mother and brother already. She doesn’t need it coming from her father, too. ’’You are the Surgeon. You are the smartest one here.’’ And then, because she really is exhausted by all of this melodrama that’s overtaken her life, she sneers: _’’Start acting like it.’’_

Perhaps she is too rough. Her father sees her, yet again. His eyes stray down and Ainsley realises she’s touching him. She’s holding onto him with a vice, unfaltering grip. She does have a strong grip. Ainsley now understands that there is a strength inside her she doesn’t show often. Perhaps because it isn’t something anyone wants to see, so there is no use to it. Her mother wants to go to balls with her; she still reminisces what a beautiful debutant she would have been had there been a debutant ball. Malcolm never quite sees farther than his little sister.

But her father sees her.

As he’s led away he glances back to her over his shoulder and their eyes lock for one final moment.

Her father sees her.

Ainsley may see herself too, for the first time.

In such a hopeless situation that they all find themselves in, Ainsley only hopes that they make it out alive. It will not be like Watkins again. She will not be hunted in her own home.

Things change when she’s alone. Ainsley sees Nicholas in her home and halts to a freezing, rootless spot. He is touching her things all while smiling that lurid and disgusting smile that sends shivers down her spine. Her hands clench into tight fists, but that only seems to amuse him more. ’’Ainsley, I wanted to follow up on our conversation from before. Your family is quite notorious in being nosy. For Jessica’s sake, you understand, I don’t wish for there to be bad blood between us.’’

He gestures the chaise longue in the living room and whispers: ’’Sit.’’

Nicholas Endicott is a person who doesn’t feel the need to shout. Ainsley vaguely remembers once hearing that only helpless people who know they won’t be obeyed shout. This isn’t true most of the time. Sometimes shouting is just passionate communication. God only knows how many times her family’s conversations have escalated into screaming matches. It’s quite undignified really. Not that Ainsley minds.

The stark difference between what she is used to and what stands before her is enough, however, to lose her spark. It is different when she is alone.

Nicholas Endicott does not tolerate the word: ’No.’

Ainsley sits. His smile widens and he bares his teeth this time like an animal primed to kill.

Slowly, leisurely he eases himself to sit next to her. His fingers caress her cheek and she wants to tear from his grasp. ’’You know, Ainsley, in this light you may even come close to your mother’s beauty. Well, except for the eyes. Those are all your insane father’s.’’ He laughs at a joke Ainsley doesn’t find funny at all. His lecherous fingers drift down, tracing her jawline in a gentle, claiming tone. He is looking to see if she will fight him. Nicholas Endicott is trying to find where Ainsley’s limit is.

Ainsley closes her eyes and he nears her. Her hands are clutched into fists and she could – she could try to punch him, couldn’t she? It is possible. But she’s frozen. She’s all alone. It’s like Watkins all over again isn’t it? Nicholas’ fingers card through her hair and he clucks sympathetically at the scar that will be visible for a long, long time.

’’Text your brother.’’ His hot breath is too much. It’s fogging up her senses. Ainsley is helpless, yet again. She doesn’t say ’no’. Instead she takes out her phone and does as asked.

’’Good girl.’’ Nicholas Endicott whispers into her ear and gently rubs a hand across her thigh. To him they are playthings. To Watkins they are a means to revenge. To her father they are family, but he is too far away. He leaves one fiendish, arrogant kiss on her cheek and it takes everything Ainsley has not to scream at him.

When Malcolm comes she won’t be alone.

She just wants to live.

Ainsley just has to live through this. Malcolm must have a plan. He’s the one this entire family is riding on, isn’t he? Her heart is frozen when Nicholas laughs. ’’It really is a shame I’ll have to destroy all of you. Jessica did amuse me.’’ He points to the scar on his forehead, the indent that comes from her mother’s ire. His voice drops from lilting to serious. ’’Until she did this, of course. There is no coming back from that.’’

All of the words Ainsley has lodged in her throat can’t resurface.

’’Such a shame.’’ He shakes his head. ’’You are terribly pretty.’’

Ainsley swallows down a scream. She will unleash it later. Patience is imperative in situations like this.

He sits on the couch and she scoots to the end of it so there is no chance of their limbs touching, even by accident. Nicholas pretends not to notice as he regales her of stories of how much good he’s done solely because there has been nobody to oppose him. Power is the most important thing in the world. Whatever little case her brother is working on will not hold up for long. His lawyers will tear it to shreds and devour it like vultures do carrion. A laugh bubbles from inside his chest and he amicably lets it out into the world.

Ainsley wishes to silence it. She doesn’t look at him. Her gaze is only at the door from where her brother will come here. Is she leading him here like a pig for slaughter? Is she doing the right thing by following Nicholas’ whims?

Her mother isn’t here to save her and whisper to her comfortingly that she needs to pull through. Her brother isn’t here to beat up Nicholas and shove him into a box. Her father’s a long way away from here.

It is a lifetime until Malcolm bursts through those doors. A lifetime of sneaky little touches that show her that she is trapped.

When he sees her Ainsley can’t hold it in anymore. The worry in his eyes, the anger in his voice: ’’Did he hurt you?’’

The tears come on their own. Ainsley can’t believe she’s let them come, but Malcolm is here. She isn’t alone anymore.

This sleaze, this monstrously evil man in front of them dares to offer Malcolm a drink in his own home, as if it doesn’t belong to either of them. As if this isn’t their mother’s home and their childhood home. Ainsley grits her teeth, but she pulls back finally. There is strength in numbers. She isn’t as scared anymore.

While Malcolm and Nicholas are talking Ainsley inches towards the knife drawer. She can’t breathe, yet she does soundlessly. Blood rushes through her brain and she can’t hear anything anymore.

Malcolm’s hands are shaking. Those aren’t the hands of a killer. A killer needs steady and strong hands. Hands that can grab and hands that can hold onto things tightly.

They don’t notice her. They’re too caught up with their own conflicting egos to notice her. That’s fine. Ainsley has always been underestimated. She has always been able to slip under the radar. Now it isn’t insulting. It is her secret advantage; one that loud Malcolm doesn’t have, nor her flamboyant mother, nor even the showman who is her father.

When her hand clasp around the knife handle, Ainsley hears shouting. She turns around and sees Malcolm wielding a gun with a shaky, shaky hand. Nicholas is smiling. He knows he can’t kill him.

’’You know,’’ Nicholas Endicott breathes and Ainsley thinks that that is wasted air, ’’you are your mother’s son. All smoke, no fire.’’ And then he dares to speak of their mother. His filthy mouth doesn’t deserve to speak Jessica Whitly’s name, let alone the things he implies.

Malcolm shouts. Yet again, he feels hopeless, doesn’t he? Ainsley can hear it in his tone of voice. She can feel it in the way he moves the gun. They don’t have any evidence. Nicholas Endicott is too rich and influential to be prosecuted by the law which he owns. The system is broken.

How little power the innocents truly have in this world. Ainsley will not be a victim in her home again. She cannot let this happen to her again and again and again. Her family is in danger. Her head swims with thoughts as she soundlessly approaches. Malcolm is too lawful to do anything. She respects this. But the law cannot help them against someone so foul, so well connected, so bitterly, awfully rich.

This will not end like Watkins. Ainsley won’t allow it.

’’I can do anything I –’’

Ainsley embeds her nails into his scalp as she holds him in place for her knife. It slides across his throat and spills rivulets of blood across his needlessly expensive suit. She sees only different shades of red. The crimson colour of her sweater; the red, afraid face Nicholas has as he screams for his life; the currant of blood gushing from the wound and splashing her clothes with it.

Malcolm lowers his gun and stares in sheer bafflement.

It is true what they say about the quiet ones, isn’t it?

Ainsley has been quiet for far too long. She turns him so he looks at her when she raises her knife and **_screams_**. Her voice resonates throughout the room like a siren that’s caught her prey to drown into the depths. Ainsley wonders, briefly, while she’s stabbing him if it’s even possible for him to drown in his own blood.

Nobody will ever make her feel unsafe in her own home.

Her knife clatters to the floor and smears the white carpet. Ainsley’s face is smeared with bloody splotches. She sees Nicholas’ body fallen to the ground, a canvass of her own design, and lifts her head up to her brother.

’’What did you do?’’

Ainsley is breathing heavily, trying to calm her fast heart. There is a rush slamming through her. Her vision begins to blur. ’’What just happened?’’

Malcolm approaches her in quick strides: ’’It’s okay, Ainsley.’’ Before he can say anything more comforting and reassuring his phone buzzes.

Carefully he takes it out and answers it. He doesn’t say anything to her, but the look he spears her with tells her everything. Their father is on the other end of that call.

Ainsley closes her eyes and doesn’t move. She feels like a statue. Like the angel one Watkins has given her.

Her father is yelling through the phone, she can hear him barely: ’’Things are looking up for me!’’ He is beyond happy. ’’I took Ainsley’s advice.’’

Her eyes fly open at that. For a fleeting, miniscule moment there is pride that flutters in her chest to hear that someone’s taken her advice. Malcolm doesn’t know what to do. He whispers, hoarsely: ’’And she’s taken yours.’’

Through the phone, through what cannot be described as anything except a prison riot (of course it is, she doesn’t expect anything less from her lunatic father), comes a proud, loving question: ’’Did she really?’’ It’s like she’s watching him. It’s like she’s there with him because right now he is smiling that wide, incredibly pleased grin of his. His voice addresses her and Ainsley feels, yet again, seen: ’’ ** _My girl._** ’’

**Author's Note:**

> I FEEL VALIDATED AS HELL WITH THE SEASON'S FINALE Y'ALL


End file.
